


Post

by StAnni



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:09:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: It was two days this time.  Two days in two months.  He is certain that Arthur doesn’t see anyone else but him.  He doesn’t know how Arthur does it, how he maintains that fierce discipline.  Arthur glances away and it feels like a weight has been lifted from his heart – to be out from under that intense gaze. “Let me know when you reach London.” Arthur says and he always says that, and Eames imagines that he always waits, back in his Paris loft, for the text that Eames is back at his flat in Putney – a text he always forgets to send. “Yeah” Eames answers lightly and they part, without a kiss.





	Post

Arthur’s eyes are so serious – so grave in the anticipation of disappointment that it is funny, sad – at how well he knows Eames by now, but still funny. “Come on, Arthur,” he says as they wait for his train “don’t tell me you’re going to miss me.”

It was two days this time. Two days in two months. He is certain that Arthur doesn’t see anyone else but him. He doesn’t know how Arthur does it, how he maintains that fierce discipline. Arthur glances away and it feels like a weight has been lifted from his heart – to be out from under that intense gaze. “Let me know when you reach London.” Arthur says and he always says that, and Eames imagines that he always waits, back in his Paris loft, for the text that Eames is back at his flat in Putney – a text he always forgets to send. “Yeah” Eames answers lightly and they part, without a kiss. 

Last year, for Easter weekend, Arthur came to London and they drank way too much wine within the first two hours of him being there. He had Arthur in his bed for three straight days and on the fourth he ravished Arthur in a pub bathroom. Arthur’s mouth was filthy and insatiable and as he dragged the blunt tips of his fingers down Eames’ shoulders as Eames thrust into him, he breathed out curses and whispers of “I love you” “I love you”. After that weekend Eames had made an effort to instill a bit of a distance between them. The last thing that Arthur needed, now that he was no longer in the onerous shadow of Dom Cobb, was to have new life wrecked by the likes of Eames. Again.

When he gets to his flat he turns his phone off and sleeps the sleep of the vile and wicked. As usual he dreams of Arthur – of his hands, swift on his buttons, of his voice and the lilt of dry amusement. He dreams of Arthur on his knees, of the heat of Arthur’s tongue. He dreams of Arthur shoving him down on his light green sheets, the sounds of Paris by day beyond the window. Then he dreams of how it was long ago, when they were both barely in their twenties, before Cobb and the month in New York – when it was all cheap hotels, dingy bars and a hunger that could not be sated. And then he dreams of New York. All of his dreams about Arthur turn into nightmares given enough time.

A knock on the door wakes him up and in his fugue state, for a moment, he thinks he is back Paris. “Arthur?” But it’s not Arthur, it’s a delivery of something or other that he forgot he even ordered in the first place. He dumps the box with the other unopened items on his one couch and takes a searing shower, stroking himself at the memory of Arthur pulling at his belt. 

When he turns his phone back on there is a text from Arthur – “This was the last time.” He smirks as he takes a beer from the fridge. It is their inside joke, or at least, it has turned into an inside joke. But they both know that they probably should, at some point, heed their own advice. Again. Eames takes a photograph of his cock and sends it in reply. To which Arthur immediately sends a picture of Dom as Elvis for Halloween and he almost spurts beer through his nose in a snort of laughter. 

He finds a hook-up the next night and the guy is almost the complete opposite of Arthur. Muscly, dumb and blonde he smiles as Eames positions the webcam. The guy is not bad and rides Eames with a rhythm that has him bucking up in an orgasm within ten minutes. Afterwards, still cresting and waiting for the guy to come out of the shower he sends Arthur a lascivious description of how he came against the shower wall – the memory of Arthur nimbly undoing his belt – the distinct click of the buckle driving him over the edge. Sometimes it doesn’t take much.

The hook-up tells him about how he lived in Seattle before and Eames realizes that he must only be a few years younger than they were before they went to New York. Eames pretends to listen as he wonders whether the hook-up has an Arthur somewhere, an Eames? He wonders if this kid is the Eames, pretending not to care, or whether he is the Arthur, pretending to care.   
He wonders if this young blonde kid also keeps his heart somewhere else, far away from anyone and anything now. 

He gets angry sometimes because Arthur doesn’t seem to live when he is not there to egg him on – to make him go out, talk to people. He warns Arthur that Arthur is going to turn into a hermit. A few times, in answer, Arthur has looked at him, with those infuriating, serious eyes. A few times he has nodded, or smirked. “We’re not the same, Eames.” He says and they’re not, but they are. “At some point we are really going to have to stop, Arthur.” Eames has said before, at moments when they could take a small glance back to their previous intimacy. “That’s what I keep telling you.” Arthur would answer without fail – backing away ever so slightly – just enough to skirt the actual conversation.

The hook-up leaves around five in the morning and Eames checks his phone. Nothing from Arthur yet – which is not surprising. Arthur keeps normal hours, he doesn’t prowl the streets like some craven junkie – trying to scrub the memory of the life before from behind his eyes. No, Arthur pretends that he is the good boyfriend in a somewhat strained long distance relationship, and that Eames is not fucking every guy that gives him the time of day. 

To each his own then.

At about seven his phone beeps and wakes him from the very early stages of his dream – Arthur, twenty two, naked in the inside pool at Eames’ family manor just outside of Wales. Arthur, lips parted in the beginning of a smile.  
It’s a text from Arthur, an eye-roll emoji and followed by a picture of Arthur’s cock – hard, the firm grip of Arthur’s fingers around the shaft. Eames smirks and sighs and dropping the phone on his chest, goes back to the dream.


End file.
